


Catch me if you can

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, House of Vanya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 15:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16600577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Short Affair challenge. Prompts: vault, yellow.A response to Neuralclone’s bunny plot on LJ Scrapbook 5/11/18Vanya is notoriously reclusive. A potential biographer wants to talk to him





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m sorry,” said the woman on reception, “Vanya doesn’t give personal interviews.”

“Why not?”

“He just doesn’t. He never has.”

“But a biography would be so interesting for the fashion world – and specially his clientele …”

“I’m sorry – he’s unlikely to grant you an interview or allow you to write a biography.”

<><> 

So, that was that for the moment. Alex moved away into the foyer and looked around. It was an unusually minimalist space – clean lines, designer furniture, and one or two richly coloured carpets. There were no portraits of Vanya himself, unlike other fashion houses whose designers were household names and whose faces were familiar everywhere.

There were several people looking at the displays of fabrics and designs. Alex approached one couple and stood with them admiring the flowing lines of an evening dress. They chatted. “Wish I had an opportunity to wear that,” she said to the woman.

The woman smiled. “Me too,” she said.

“D’you go to his shows?” said Alex.

“I’ve been to one or two, but just for fun. I don’t have the figure these days.”

“Does Vanya himself show up? – I’ve never even seen a picture of him.”

“If he does, he always goes incognito – they say few people know what he looks like.”

It looked like either he was very shy or paradoxically vain, because being mysterious might be quite good PR. Give up? Not likely.

Leaving the building, Alex stumbled and dropped her file and her bag.

“May I help?” said a voice as she bent to catch the papers that were blowing around now. The man caught several by stepping on them and, gathering them up, he presented them to her with a diffident smile and a little bow.

“Thank you so much,” she said, smiling back. He was very good looking.

“My pleasure,” he said and, turning away, walked across the foyer. She looked after him curiously. He was carrying a briefcase – a rep perhaps, a business consultant, or maybe a client. Most likely that – he wore a suit, his well-cut fair hair brushed his collar; he walked briskly but with a slight limp, or just a catch in his gait; and he had a golden tan. Must be a wealthy client. Might be worth waiting to see if he came out again and asking him some questions. She followed him inside and saw him vault lightly up the stairs two at a time rather than taking the elevator.

There were books and magazines to read and the designer furniture was surprisingly comfortable. Alex made herself at home. Someone even came to offer coffee which she accepted. It was raining outside now, so she had every excuse to stay.

She watched as slender, beautiful girls and stylish young men came in and made for the elevator, and then an older woman, also stylish and indefinably European in her grey suit and yellow chiffon scarf.

On impulse, Alex jumped up and intercepted her as she crossed the floor.

“Pardon me,” she said, “but do you work here?”

“But yes, can I help you?” Alex felt she was getting warmer – it was a French accent and Vanya’s had started in Paris.

“I hope so – I want to meet Vanya. Can you arrange that for me?”

“Why do you want to meet him?”

“I want to write his biography.”

The woman laughed. “ _Non, non, non_ ,” she said. “That is not possible. He is a very private man. He would never allow it.”

“Is Vanya his real name?”

“I’m sorry. He is Vanya, that’s all you need to know.”

“Is it true that there is a Vanya’s in the Soviet Union?” Alex persisted. “Is he Russian?”

“I’m sorry. Please excuse me, I don’t want to be late for my meeting,” and the woman moved swiftly to the elevator.

Thwarted again, Alex returned to the sofa and picked up one of the magazines.

<><><> 

She was still waiting a couple of hours later. The man who had helped to pick up her dropped papers hadn’t reappeared so she asked if there was a rear exit. Told, No, she continued to wait.

People were beginning to leave at the end of the day. She’d have to go. There was no point waiting any longer. As she went towards the doors, however, they opened and a very striking man entered. Middle-aged to be sure, but dark, good-looking, confident and extremely well dressed. Vanya?

She caught his attention immediately and he smiled at her and held the door for her. She stopped and said, “Are you Vanya, by any chance?”

He laughed and said, “No, I’m not. Why?”

“I’d like to meet him. Have you come to see him?”

“I’m just meeting a friend.”

“Oh. But do you know him? Can you introduce me?”

“I’m afraid not – he’s a bit of a recluse.”

“Can you tell me anything about him?” Alex persisted.

“From what I’ve heard, he’d have my teeth for cufflinks, if I did.”

“Why? Vanya’s is famous – why doesn’t he want people to know about him?”

Alex was still explaining her mission when her companion looked up and smiled at someone behind her. She turned. It was the man she’d been waiting for. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I hoped I’d see you again.”

He raised his eyebrows and she said hurriedly, “I want to meet Vanya – can _you_ help?”

He shook his head and she protested, “Everyone’s so protective of him but I only want to write a biography and no-one will tell me anything.”

“What makes you think I can help?”

“Well – haven’t you just been to see him?”

“In a manner of speaking. But, I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

And with that, he and the other man went off together leaving Alex to grind her teeth. She waited till they were a hundred yards away and began to follow them. They obviously knew Vanya.

<><><> 

“We’re being followed.”

“I know. She’d be easy to lose – do we bother?”

“She’s been hanging around all afternoon. She’s the sort that would come and annoy us at dinner.”

“OK, we lose her.”

“Then, Russian Tea Room?”

“Sure.”

Alex had closed the gap between them to about fifty yards but lost sight of them as they turned a corner. She ran to catch up and was surprised and dismayed to find that the street was empty. They had vanished.

<><><><>


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is growing tension between West and East. The persistent biographer finds she has bitten off more than she can chew

“A man cannot step in the same river twice, it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man,” said Illya as they entered UNCLE headquarters.

“Who said that?”

“Heraclitus.”

“Very profound.”

“Some truths are eternal. Though, of course, the idea has been challenged.”

Napoleon chose not to pursue that comment. Philosophical questions were Illya’s thing not his.

“Are we doing the right thing?” said Illya, “coming back like this?”

“Are we not?”

“We’re not the same. The world is not the same.”

<><> 

It was never going to be like old times. The new UNCLE headquarters with its wood panelling and brass fittings somehow lacked the visionary, technologically-advanced style of the old – even though it was full of advanced technology. Illya hated the panelling and the wall-to-wall carpeting. It was stodgy, old-world.

They were both a little baffled by the women there, too. They weren’t the same as fifteen, twenty years ago when they had looked like Barbie dolls, which concealed the fact that they were tough, well-trained and the equal of (almost) any man. Furthermore, they would accept the invitations of men like Napoleon like Amazons would – as much on their terms as on his. Paradoxically the new, feminist, women were either Girl Friday types – literally in the case of Janice Friday who, if she really were a feminist, shouldn’t have accepted such a role – or they were brusque, rather masculine types who were rather taken with Illya. Napoleon didn’t necessarily want their attentions but still resented anyone’s preferring his partner to him.

The new Section One head was somehow disappointing, too. Sir John Raleigh wasn’t as masterful and aloof as Waverly had been. He was a little weak and didn’t seem to see into the future in the way his predecessor had. However, it didn’t take much prescience to see the significance of the mission he wanted UNCLE’s former best – the adults in the room – to deal with.

<> 

This was in a different category of challenge: the potential launch of nuclear missiles at the Soviet Union without warning – to forestall a mutually assured destructive response. The current tension between the two countries was making nuclear conflict a distinct possibility.

“And you think the President would be mad enough to do such a thing?”

“No, no. We think there is a Thrush mole in the White House – someone who has recruited a lookalike for the President. He’s an old man and sometimes likes to take a rest from his schedule. We think there is a lookalike sufficiently convincing to act for him.”

Illya looked sceptical. “No-one’s that convincing,” he said.

“There are such things as masks and clever makeup as I’m sure you are aware,” said Sir John tartly. “It’s most likely to happen away from Washington. Now, the President is coming to New York fairly soon and will naturally be carrying the Gold Codes on his person.” He looked at each of them. “As I expect you know, only he can call for a nuclear launch, so he has to be reliably identified. The Gold Code is the President’s unique identifier. You will also know that a new code is generated every day and printed on a card among a list of meaningless codes.”

“How does the President know which is the right one?” said Napoleon.

“He has to memorise its location on the card.”

“Good grief,” said Illya, who always assumed the President’s general air of vagueness included absentmindedness.

“If his lookalike were to use the code and launch missiles in such a way, the US government would receive a mortal wound from which it could not recover, and would be ripe for takeover – that’s what we think is the plan,” said Sir John.

Napoleon was first to speak. “Doesn’t he need the Vice-President and the chiefs of staff to agree? And he wouldn’t hand the codes to a lookalike, surely? What’s _our_ role?”

“There is already a head of steam sufficient to convince the VP and the chiefs of staff that this would be the real thing. I need you, Mr Solo, to be part of the President’s protection detail, so that you can pick his pocket before the lookalike can.”

“You’re joking!”

“Not at all, it’s an example of Occam’s razor – the simplest way is the best,” said Sir John. “Now, Mr Kuryakin, I want _you_ to attend the First Lady in your current capacity of fashion designer.”

“I don’t design for older women,” said Illya, unhelpfully.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. I’ve arranged for you to meet her in order for her to promote your work as a New York designer. You should be pleased.”

Illya breathed heavily but said nothing.

Sir John continued, “With your charm and good looks, she’ll be … did you say something Mr Solo?”

Napoleon coughed into a handkerchief and shook his head, avoiding his partner’s eyes.

“Anyway, it will put you in a good position to discover where the President keeps the card.”

Illya rolled his eyes and Napoleon added, “She seems to like red, Illya. That’ll keep you happy, won’t it?”

“I never use red,” he snapped.

“Well, now’s your chance.”

<><><> 

Reading the newspaper, Alex Shulkin’s eyes widened as she took in a photograph of the First Lady and her newest designer, the reclusive Vanya, described as having bowled her over with dress designs for her forthcoming visit to New York. It was a profile only, but unmistakeable. She closed the paper and thought for a moment, then she abandoned her breakfast. Ten minutes later she was on her way to Vanya’s.

The receptionist seemed a little flustered. Alex was sympathetic and asked what had upset her. She had been plagued with reporters, it seemed. Vanya’s people were too busy to talk to them so she had had to answer all their questions – or rather, _not_ answer them.

It was as she turned away that Alex saw her prey crossing the floor. She ran after him and caught up just outside where he was getting into a cab. She threw herself into it as the cab took off and landed in Vanya’s arms.

“You are like a mosquito, Miss Shulkin,” he said drily, setting her down beside him.

“And you are too much like a fly swat. But you _are_ Vanya, aren’t you,” she said, “I really would like to know a bit more about you.”

“I will drop you off if you’ll tell me where would be convenient,” he said.

“Take me with you. I’d like to see what a fashion designer does all day. I won’t get in your way.”

“You are in my way, now.”

“Which way is that?”

“The airport.”

“Oh.”

“If you don’t have the fare to get back, I suggest you get the subway.”

As that appeared to be acceptance of her continued presence in the cab, Alex sat back in her corner to observe her reluctant companion. Even in a state of suppressed anger, he was good looking so it wasn’t a challenging occupation.

“Do you put highlights in your hair, or are they natural?”

He didn’t answer, but his frown deepened.

“Why don’t you want to talk about yourself?”

Fierce blue eyes turned towards her. She smiled guilelessly and said, “Are you leading a double life, or something?”

He turned away again. “You won’t be allowed anywhere near where I’m going. You’d better get out at the Arrivals gate.”

“So, you’re not going away yourself?”

He ignored her and looked out at the passing view.

The cab driver had been watching his rear-view mirror and now spoke into the intercom. “Mr K, there’s a car following us.”

Illya twisted quickly to look behind him and reached inside his beautifully-cut jacket, revealing a holster.

“Mr Vanya!” Alex squeaked as he withdrew the weapon. With his other hand he pulled a thin pen from his inside pocket and after manipulating it he spoke into it urgently.

“Napoleon? We’ve picked up a tail.” As he spoke, the rear window shattered, covering them with glass. Illya grabbed Alex and thrust her down to the floor, covering her body with his own as the cab driver put his foot down to pull away. “Are you all right?” he said in her ear.

“You’re crushing me, I can’t breathe,” she whispered.

“Oh, sorry.” He raised himself a little. “Better?”

“Yes. What’s happening?”

“Someone shot the window out.”

“I noticed. What now?”

“We’ll get to the airport and see.”

The driver spoke on the intercom again. “Mr K they’re gaining on us. Can you do something?”

Illya’s weight increased for moment on Alex then it was gone as he shifted onto the seat, keeping his head down. All she could see was his knee, then his ankle and foot as he got into position to fire out of the rear window. There was a bang and the leg she could see jerked and she heard him grunt.

“Are you OK?” she said urgently.

“I’m fine,” he murmured and slumped a little on the seat.

Alex raised her head and saw blood on the hand that was gripping Vanya’s upper arm. “Oh, my! You’re not OK."

“I’ve been better,” he admitted and shouted at the driver to speed up.

<><><><> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon picks a pocket

Napoleon heard the sound of breaking glass through his communicator. “Illya!”

There was no response for a few moments, then his partner said, “I’m bleeding quite badly, Napoleon – my suit’s ruined. I can’t meet the President and First Lady in this condition.”

“You can’t meet her at all, my friend.”

“Napoleon, you are …” further sounds of battle cut him off. Then, “We’re almost there, Napoleon.”

“Your outriders are about to meet opposition, Illya. Are you OK?”

“I’ll live.”

<><> 

The cab driver waved his UNCLE pass at security and they were through into safety. Napoleon was waiting with medics and was extremely surprised when the first person to emerge from the cab was a young woman crawling out on her hands and knees. He recognised her when she stood up and turned but was more concerned for his friend who also tried to climb out. The medics took him in hand and lifted him onto a gurney and whisked him away.

Napoleon marched after them followed by Alex who was stumbling with delayed shock. She caught his arm, “Please, what’s going on?”

“If you were in the cab, you know what’s going on,” he replied, putting an arm round her.

“I know what happened, not what’s going on.”

“It’s none of your business – what were you doing in the cab, anyway?”

“I thought it was a chance to get him alone and persuade him to tell me about himself.”

Napoleon laughed. “It would be a notable first, if you’d succeeded,” he said.

He left Alex being treated for shock, and Illya being treated for a not very serious bullet wound, and returned to his post.

He was in good time to see the arrival of the President, who, after being formally greeted by the city dignitaries, shook hands with his security detail in private. Napoleon, used to tidying bits of Illya’s attire, said, “Excuse me, sir, let me brush that dust off your lapel – there, that’s it.”

The President smiled the famous smile and made a joke of it and passed on. Napoleon, having palmed the card, breathed a sigh of relief and made his way back to the airport medical rooms.

He found Illya and the girl together, not exactly chatting but not quite as antagonistic as might have been expected. Illya’s arm was in a sling, his suit a blood-stained mess.

He waved the Gold Card concealed in its opaque cover at his partner, who smiled but said, “I was supposed to meet the First Lady…”

“It’s OK. Mathilde got here in time.”

“What?”

“I called her and she followed in another UNCLE car.”

Alex listened intently. “UNCLE?” she said. “What’s UNCLE got to do with this?”

“Security, my dear,” said Napoleon. “Just part of the security detail.”

“But what about Vanya?”

“He’s UNCLE, too.”

“Napoleon…” Illya began.

“So, you see, young lady,” Napoleon continued, “you mustn’t write about him. You’ll put his life at risk. That photo in the newspaper did enough damage.”

“Who shot at us?”

“A renegade organisation out to create … a lot of problems. They’ve been dealt with.”

“For now,” said Illya gloomily.

<><> 

They put Alex and Mathilde into one of the UNCLE cars and sent them back to the city and followed in the other.

Napoleon examined the card he had abstracted from the President’s pocket and, on impulse, snapped it to reveal the printed card within. Illya took it from him in his good hand.

“You know, this doesn’t seem very sensible to me,” he said. “No one man, whoever he is, should have this power.”

“There are checks and balances,” Napoleon reminded him. “The Vice-President and chiefs of staff.”

“So, why was everyone so worried this time if not because – like now – when there is tension, those individuals might not be able to check a President’s whim?”

“We’re an extra check, Illya.”

“For now.”

“Pessimist.”

“Cock-eyed optimist.”

Napoleon grinned.

<><><><> 


End file.
